


The Werewolf Of Prague

by milkyway



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Ghosts, Humor, M/M, Married Life, Mates, Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1909395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkyway/pseuds/milkyway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On their honeymoon in Europe, Derek helps Stiles reconnect with his roots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Werewolf Of Prague

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little bit of fluff I've had brewing in my head for a while. In my head Stiles is of Czech origin, so, it made sense for them to journey through Europe and end up in the Czech Republic.

The Charles Bridge was the usual throng of tourists jostling for trinkets and selfies as Stiles and Derek squeezed their way through to get to the Old Town Square. Below them, the Vltava flowed limpid and nonchalant under the great medieval arches, its waters turning a mottled pink in the dying afternoon sun.

"Not another pic!" Derek groaned as his mate whipped out his iPhone, pausing beneath the statue with the relief of the golden dog, it's rump wiped shiny by thousands of visiting hands. 

"Aw, Derek," Stiles squeaked pleadingly, staring at the werewolf with the soulful brown eyes that no creature with a pulse could resist. (And, evidently, many creatures without pulses.)

"Very well then," the older man grunted, and leaned into the selfie, managing a serviceable smile. Stiles, satisfied as he looked at the pic, quickly brought up the mini-editing tools and edited out his husband's telltale lens flare, so that nothing would look odd when he'd post the umpteenth record of their four-month sojourn through Europe.

"Are we done now, please?" the werewolf said. "Time for goulash and a long cold glass of Pilsner."

"That would be your seventh beer for the day," Stiles teased as they edged hand in hand across the bridge. 

"Yep, but I can't get drunk."

"Five Mojitos and a few drops of wolfsbane would tell a different story," Stiles said, snorting. "You were dancing on the table in the nightclub last night, remember."

"Yes, and then you were doing body shots on me shortly afterwards."

"Those Essex girls were daring us. And it's not like the crowd wasn't egging us on."

You had to hand it to the Czechs. They certainly didn't bat an eyelid at the two young men shamelessly displaying their affection for each other in every corner of Prague. The heartbreakingly beautiful city was turning out to be the acme of their trip: they had had a lazy afternoon picnicking in Petrin Park, the next day, a morning of grief and reflection in the Old Synagogue as they soaked up the terrible tragedy of the Holocaust. 

More sobering moments in the Museum of Communism had followed as Stiles saw graphic pictures of the Communist invasion which only his grandparents, great-uncle and his wife survived. A whole day on the hill and the castle, Stiles having a cosmic moment in the awesome grace of St Vitus cathedral as he discovered the chapel of his namesake and lit a candle of remembrance for his mother. Then the Dvorak concert in the Rudolfinium, reducing both werewolf and Red to misty-eyed nostalgia as wave after wave of glorious music washed across them, and, all around, the panoply of steeples and cobblestones and the languid harmonics of Czech voices singing their Slavic tongue. 

Derek stared lovingly at Stiles as they stretched out at their table on the Old Town Square, knowing full well they were being charged a premium to enjoy the view. Stiles was positively aglow, like Derek had been in Ireland, both men revelling in turn in discovering their ancient homelands. Stiles's Czech had come haltingly at first, but after only two days in the little republic the language he had last spoken to his grandparents when he was a little boy was now bubbling out of him with gusto. 

“I need more of this goulash,” said Derek, poking at the remains of the hearty meat soup in front of him.

“Have a dumpling,” said Stiles, plonking one of the carb bombs into his husband’s bowl.

Derek snorted. “The portions are so small here,” he said.

“Small?” said Stiles, frowning. “How the hell are you going to survive in Paris? Oh, but wait, this is the man who likes to eat at least 8 pounds of meat a day. Often raw. No wonder our koruna aren’t stretching very far…”

“You know I’m a big bad werewolf who needs his protein,” said Derek, chugging down a gulp of Pilsener, “and out of respect of being in another country I’m not going to run off into their forests and sample the local deer population.”

“And what about the pheasant massacre in that country inn outside Bratislava?” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “You left feathers on the hotel bed. NOT funny.”

Derek chuckled, revealing the faintest glimmer of fangs, and hoovered up his goulash.

“So…" said Stiles, “Tonight... The tour?"

"What tour?" said Derek, wiping off a foam moustache after finishing up his beer. It was rather adorable.

"The moonlight ghost tour, remember?"

Derek rolled his eyes. "Really, Stiles? You honestly want to go for that tourist trap crap? You've seen enough real supernatural shit to last you several lifetimes."

Stiles put on the whiny voice. "Puleeeeeeze, Big Bad? I traipsed all around Barcelona with you to study everything Gaudi built. And I didn't complain. Come on. I'm supposedly related to this mad king whose crypt we're going to visit. And we still need to buy Lydia the pair of garnet earrings she asked for...we can stop at the night market on the way back..."

"Fine, Stiles."

"Thanks, babe," the brunet replied, blowing his mate a kiss.


End file.
